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I have a stable of angels out back, behind the mausoleum. Their eyes are gouged out so they don’t go anywhere and they’re chained next to the bodies of the faithful. It’s like tying a dead chicken around a dog’s neck for a few days to teach him that killing chickens is bad. I’m teaching these angels that handing out hope and miracles like candy is a stupid thing to do. Over the next few days, I’ll fuck them until their wings darken and let them loose as my pets.
I tend the graveyard.
The headstones all lean slightly towards my stone house like it’s the opposite of an epicenter. They’re sniffing the gravity of darkness.
Post-angels come close and perch on these rocks stuck in the ground. The Turned. They’re no smarter than crows these days. They cock their eyeless heads and pull their black wings back from their cold, pale, human bodies. They perch and look at me with smiles that belong on different faces.
I’ve slept with all of them. The dark raping ink of my sperm is what has ruptured them inside and blackened their wings. They’re greasy to the touch. Their always-bleeding windows-to-the-soul sockets are red with the vision of the combat to come. They hemorrhage with a lust for battle and a single-minded all-consuming hatred of The Host.
There are thousands of them. I think they’re all here. This is a first. Tonight might be the night.
I love this. I live for this. I start undoing my belt and making my way towards the stable.
She arrives. She is merely in front of me as if she has always been there. She smiles with sticky, red teeth and raises an eyebrow.
Every now and then the Remnant awakens. A dark shard of what hatred used to mean back in the beginning. The eyes of the black-winged harpy flicker open with true intelligence and glare with fury as she makes plans for an attack run on Heaven. She’ll attempt to bring down the Big House.
When I say I tend the graveyard, I mean that anyone good that gets buried here goes nowhere near Heaven. I collect the glowing flowers of good, decent people with my scythe and bring them back to my place. I have thousands of jars of souls in the basement that I’ve tortured into screaming grenades of pain. They amplify the angel-catcher on the roof and will be used by her flying shadetroops as ordnance in the war to come.
The last attack on Heaven failed. This woman in front of me was knocked back to earth in pain and fire with a smile on her flayed skull. She landed in a swamp in what would become Baton Rouge, Lousisiana.
She finished healing ten minutes ago. She’s been healing in the swamp since she was thrown there in 1360.
I’ve been making troops for her for sixty years like my father and grandfather before that. I bear the tattoos of my allegiance to her. There are thirteen of us scattered around the country preparing for her return by doing exactly what I’m doing.
I can hear the damaged angels in the stable screaming like babies and pulling at their chains.
She looks gracefully towards the windows of the basement and I nod. She looks around at the vast number of black-winged obedient deathbringers around that my family has collected for her over the generations with something like pride. They adjust their weight on their perches, sensing their purpose reaching fruition.
I am no longer needed. She'll take the weaponry and the darkwings back to roost in a growing poisoned stormcloud before gathering the rest from the other twelve spiritmancer rapesmiths arranged around the focusing dish in the center of the States.
I can smell the darchangels around me smile wider.
"Welcome back Lilith" I say with a wink.
"Good job, Jake" she says back and I go deaf.
I kneel before her and it’s an honour when she kills me.
tags
I tend the graveyard.
The headstones all lean slightly towards my stone house like it’s the opposite of an epicenter. They’re sniffing the gravity of darkness.
Post-angels come close and perch on these rocks stuck in the ground. The Turned. They’re no smarter than crows these days. They cock their eyeless heads and pull their black wings back from their cold, pale, human bodies. They perch and look at me with smiles that belong on different faces.
I’ve slept with all of them. The dark raping ink of my sperm is what has ruptured them inside and blackened their wings. They’re greasy to the touch. Their always-bleeding windows-to-the-soul sockets are red with the vision of the combat to come. They hemorrhage with a lust for battle and a single-minded all-consuming hatred of The Host.
There are thousands of them. I think they’re all here. This is a first. Tonight might be the night.
I love this. I live for this. I start undoing my belt and making my way towards the stable.
She arrives. She is merely in front of me as if she has always been there. She smiles with sticky, red teeth and raises an eyebrow.
Every now and then the Remnant awakens. A dark shard of what hatred used to mean back in the beginning. The eyes of the black-winged harpy flicker open with true intelligence and glare with fury as she makes plans for an attack run on Heaven. She’ll attempt to bring down the Big House.
When I say I tend the graveyard, I mean that anyone good that gets buried here goes nowhere near Heaven. I collect the glowing flowers of good, decent people with my scythe and bring them back to my place. I have thousands of jars of souls in the basement that I’ve tortured into screaming grenades of pain. They amplify the angel-catcher on the roof and will be used by her flying shadetroops as ordnance in the war to come.
The last attack on Heaven failed. This woman in front of me was knocked back to earth in pain and fire with a smile on her flayed skull. She landed in a swamp in what would become Baton Rouge, Lousisiana.
She finished healing ten minutes ago. She’s been healing in the swamp since she was thrown there in 1360.
I’ve been making troops for her for sixty years like my father and grandfather before that. I bear the tattoos of my allegiance to her. There are thirteen of us scattered around the country preparing for her return by doing exactly what I’m doing.
I can hear the damaged angels in the stable screaming like babies and pulling at their chains.
She looks gracefully towards the windows of the basement and I nod. She looks around at the vast number of black-winged obedient deathbringers around that my family has collected for her over the generations with something like pride. They adjust their weight on their perches, sensing their purpose reaching fruition.
I am no longer needed. She'll take the weaponry and the darkwings back to roost in a growing poisoned stormcloud before gathering the rest from the other twelve spiritmancer rapesmiths arranged around the focusing dish in the center of the States.
I can smell the darchangels around me smile wider.
"Welcome back Lilith" I say with a wink.
"Good job, Jake" she says back and I go deaf.
I kneel before her and it’s an honour when she kills me.
tags